BOOK OF THE DEAD

By Alexis Kirke

About 100 yds. up the road was a graveyard
 We used to visit in the autumn when the
  leaves turned violently red * their
 dermatology their flake their dried haemo-
perspirate

  I was only ten years old * the drink had not
   taken hold yet but I was guzzling the too-small-
    to see leaf particles * intoxicating liquor
   served from branches crackled with opposing thumbs
  "the greatest blessing of the human race" the grave

   Stones were silken * breath of slate so many strips
    of grey * & we were buried feet in fall * took every
     step beneath a pool of veins up a track of
    mud a brick of chocolate curved by pebbles creaking
   thru the evening the emerald * the color-blindness

     of the sun * we were overwhelmed obsessed by
      every cracky little piece of paint that dripped
       from futures of the gate * those iron dreams about
      100 yds. above the house where crucifixes launching
     from the roof dispersed the clouds like
     
   breaths of wood * I really had my doubts but every
    spring we re-interred the branches of the trees and
     wrapped the bark around our legs like spears *
    around the roots of our progenitors * around the
   house replacing paint that we'd re-cycled for the

 gateway's coat * a skin that crinkled in the light
  of distant stars * I was creator I was insatiable I
 was the uneducated mass of hurry and indecision